Nocturne
by ElvishGrrl
Summary: Canon-ish DE one-shot. Set sometime in S2, but not specific. Elena can't sleep. She's waiting for someone. Someone who shouldn't even be there. Even though they both know it's wrong, that it can't last, they just need each other to hold onto for these short, stolen moments. So she waits. Rated M.


*******DISCLAIMER*** _I do **NOT** own The Vampire Diaries or the characters associated with The Vampire Diaries. No copyright infringement intended._

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**Nocturne**

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I can't sleep.

I toss and I turn and I try to think of boring things, but no matter what I do, my mind won't let go, won't let me escape.

I know why I can't sleep, too.

Because I'm waiting.

For him.

I'm lying on my back, staring up into the dark, seeing nothing, thinking about everything. Thinking about that look he shot me before he walked out of his brother's bedroom, leaving us alone to study. His brother. Who happens to be my boyfriend. Whom I probably should be thinking about while I lie in bed at night, instead. Whom I should be missing, instead. I have to stifle a bitter laugh at the idea that thinking about my actual boyfriend might be just what I need to lull me to sleep right now.

The soft snick of my bedroom window being opened sends my heart fluttering and a knowing little smile dances across my face.

He's here.

I keep as still as I can, eyes closed, all other senses on high alert. Which one of them is it? I can't be a hundred percent sure yet. But I suspect. And then my nose confirms my suspicions. A light combination of scents flows over me: first expensive leather, then cool, fresh cologne. Underscoring them both is the telltale toasted molasses whiff of bourbon.

I pick up the gentle swish of something soft hitting my window seat and know he's removed his jacket. Dual thumps against the hardwood floor as his boots come off. Fabric sliding against skin. The unmistakable hiss of a zipper.

All this happens in a matter of seconds.

The left side of my bed dips as he pulls back the covers and slips underneath.

Part of my brain insists I feign sleep. But that would be foolish. He knows full well I'm not asleep, that I'm aware of his presence. He can hear my heartbeat, every shallow breath, the speed of my blood rushing through each artery and vein. He knows exactly how my body works, how alert I currently am.

I remain still. He shouldn't be here and we both know it. If I speak and say something positive, it might be taken as acceptance, compliance, and my conscience can't have that. But if I say something negative, he might go. So I don't say a word. Silence is my only option to maintain this fragile balance we have between us.

One soft finger traces down the side of my face, from my temple, over the ridge of my cheekbone to my chin. "I know you're awake," he whispers. His voice sounds a bit rough, and I wonder if he's feeling emotional tonight. Or maybe he just had to drink a lot to build up the courage to come see me again. I can't allow myself to think too much about his emotions. Yet it's often all I think about.

I blow a little puff of air through my nose. It's almost like a sigh, but not quite. It's my acknowledgment that yes, I'm awake, and yes, I know he's here, and no, I'm not protesting or trying to run away. I say a lot of things with that one little exhalation. And I know he understands. No one else on the entire planet understands my body language the way he does.

He chuckles low in his throat, and just like that my libido kicks in. I don't know how he does it, but it's one of the sexiest sounds you can imagine. I shift toward him, rolling to rest my weight on my left shoulder. I can make out the faint outline of his body in the dim light from the streetlight outside that manages to penetrate my curtains. I know he's looking at me, can see me, though I cannot really see him. I often wonder how clearly a vampire's preternatural senses allow them to see in the dark. Can he detect the flutter of my lashes? The curve of my lips? The varied emotions that surely must cross my face?

I bet he can. I bet he notices every last one of those things and more, and has committed them all to memory. I also bet he's grateful I can't see the expressions on his own face. Because I know, even if I cannot see it, the love that's in his eyes when he watches me and thinks no one else notices. All his brazen, cocky, abrasive walls drop away when he stares at me like that. I've seen it a few times now, and it's nearly stopped my heart. I'm actually glad he has no idea I know. Because he might stop looking at me like that if he did.

I feel his hand land on my shoulder, and I close my eyes, holding my breath for a moment as he traces small circles. His fingers glide down my arm to run over the back of my hand, which rests on my cotton-covered hip. He doesn't stop at my fingertips but continues along the top of my thigh until he reaches bare skin again. I shiver when he touches the back of my knee; it's a sensitive spot, which he very much knows. I try to make out the grin on his face when he notes the catch my in breath, but I can't see it thanks to my weak human eyes. Down the curve of my calf he continues, stopping only before he reaches my foot. He knows I'll probably giggle out loud if he touches the ticklish skin there, and it might break the mood, might cause me come to my senses and ask him to leave, so he doesn't.

We know each other all too well, each other's bodies, each other's reactions. We shouldn't. But we do.

Instead of pulling his hand away when it gets to the top of my foot, he reverses direction, sliding up my leg again, slipping under the hem of my nightgown when he reaches it and continuing across my thigh, his wrist pushing the fabric higher as he goes. He pauses to caress the curve of my ass for a moment, but doesn't linger long before continuing his journey along the dip at my waist and over my ribcage. It tickles there just a little, and I suck in my breath and hold it to suffocate any laughter. The edge of his thumb brushes the side of my breast. In a shaky rush I exhale.

I know what he wants.

Bracing my palms against the mattress, I sit up, grabbing handfuls of my nightgown and yanking it over my head, twisting to drop it to the floor on my side. I hear a soft satisfied sigh as I fall back to my pillow, and it assures me he's pleased. Knowing he's happy makes me happy. It's just so rare, and moments like these, alone with me in my bed – they are pretty much the only time he's ever happy anymore. Because I don't send him away, and that might mean I actually want him here. And I know he doesn't feel wanted anywhere else.

I am his solace. His escape. His waking dream. And I'm grateful he allows me to be.

For this brief time when he visits me at night – and it only happens once in a while - we don't allow our guilt to creep in. We just…be. With each other. And if I'm being honest, it's the best part of my messy, complicated life these days.

As I look his way, he reaches out to me and cups the sides of my jaw. I know what's coming and my heart feels like it pauses in my chest in anticipation. I forget to breathe. My entire body stills. Waiting.

Another throaty chuckle as he notes my reaction to his touch. He runs a thumb over my lower lip and I gasp softly, my mouth falling open just a little. It's all the invitation he needs.

He kisses me.

At first he's gentle, tentative even. Giving me every chance to change my mind and pull away. The very fact that he kisses me like this at first, every time, proves how much he loves me. I know how capable he is of being the aggressor, the dominant, the Alpha male. And I adore that side of him more than I'll ever admit. But this other side he shows me - the sweet, thoughtful, caring side – I love it just as much. It's a secret part of him that he hides way down deep and allows free only for me.

I kiss him back, mirroring his tenderness, stroking his face, his neck. This lasts only for a few minutes. When my tongue touches the tip of his, as expected, things start to intensify. That's when all my wound-up tension, held so tight in nearly every muscle, lets go. My fingers thread into his thick hair and I pull him to me, opening my mouth wider as he angles his face for better access. His bare chest presses against mine and he hooks one leg over my thigh to keep me right where he wants me. His kisses morph into what I'd always imagined them to be like before we'd ever first touched each other in the dead of night. Demanding, possessing, taking control. I relinquish it to him willingly.

Kissing him with the kind of passion the two of us always seem to ignite makes a different kind of tension start to coil deep in my belly. When his wandering fingers find my breast, I gasp into his mouth, and I feel him smile. It's that wicked little smirk that makes me all kinds of turned on every single time I see it. I always have to pretend to be so annoyed by him, but honestly, pretending in public is getting harder and harder.

Speaking of which, certain other things are, too.

The hand that's twisted up in the long hair at the nape of my neck disentangles itself and stokes down my spine, sending more quivers cascading over my skin. It doesn't stop when it reaches the elastic of my panties. In one fluid motion he pushes them down my thighs, over my lower legs and off.

Now we're both bare. Physically. Emotionally. Words are unnecessary.

He retreats from my lips, and I know he's examining my face in the dark. I hope he finds what he's looking for. I don't want to let myself think too much about what that might be. The conscious part of my mind assures me it's just acquiescence he seeks, assurance that he's not taking advantage, not pushing me to do something I don't really want. But the deep, mostly buried, subconscious part knows it's so much more than just that. When he studies my face in moments like this, in the dark when he thinks I don't see, it's depth of feeling he's searching for. For some tiny clue I might feel even one one-hundredth of the love he feels for me every single second of every single day. I know I haunt him. And I'm terrified one day he'll realize how much he haunts me, too.

Pulling me back to him, his lips find mine again. He kisses me greedily, like he can't get enough as he rolls my body below his and pins me to the bed with his chest and hips, his knees finding their way into the space between my calves. I don't even hesitate to open my legs for him. I want him here. I want him as close to me as he can possibly get, want to banish every inch of empty air between us. I want him to fill me up and take me over, obscure me, wash away all traces of the old Elena and replace her completely with this new, enlightened one that only he ever sees.

I want so much from him that I can't possibly have. And I understand that it's nothing, nothing at all, in comparison to what he wishes he could have from me. My wants are miniscule compared to his endless years of wanting, always wanting, and never having. It's part of the reason why I let him steal these moments with me in the dark. But I also allow this…us…to happen for selfish reasons, because it's the only time I can be with him without judgment. I feel like we live in a dream together during these interludes, and dreams, as soul changing as they can be, don't really count, right?

That's what I keep telling myself.

Our kisses grow deeper. He explores my body, worships my curves. He teases my nipples, pinching them, making me groan even as I push my chest up into his hands, silently begging for more. And, of course, he gives it to me. His fingers are on the move again, running through my lower curls, testing how wet I am. I gasp again. He chuckles again. I'm ready for him.

He thrusts forward against me, sliding against my wetness, coating himself, and I tense a little as I anticipate what's coming next. He does not make me wait. I know he's as desperate for this connection right now as I am. In one swift push he buries himself within me, and I groan, clutching at his backside, digging in my fingers, raising my knees and spreading them wider as I adjust to him.

"You okay?" he murmurs, his mouth close to my ear. His breath tickles my overheated skin, raising gooseflesh.

I still can't speak, so I nod, and I know he understands.

He kisses me again, and his hips begin to move against my thighs. I hold him to me, as close as I can while he does what he does. While we do what we do.

I've never known lovemaking to be like this - this intense body-heart-soul link we share. There aren't enough words in the dictionary to describe how unbelievable it is. The way I feel with him is so much more profound than anything I've ever experienced in my short human life. He takes me to places I didn't even know existed, didn't even know I was capable of.

Our bodies move in perfect synchronicity. I raise my pelvis to meet his thrusts, matching his speed, his rhythm, without thought. Out in the real world, my normal instinct is to rebel against anyone trying control me, but here, with him, I gladly surrender. Because it's not really surrendering. It's merging, becoming one, and with every ounce of my being I crave this.

He wraps his arms around my waist and rolls us over so I'm sitting up straddling him. His hands immediately find my breasts again, and a low, breathy groan erupts from my throat when he tweaks each nipple in rapid succession. He knows just where to find all my hot buttons and he loves nothing more than to make me crazy. I swivel my hips sharply in response, earning a soft gasp from him. Smiling with satisfaction, I do it again. And again.

I hear his breath stutter in his throat, and I stop moving, waiting until I note the sound of his exhalation. He doesn't even need to breathe – neither of them do, and I know because I've caught each of them in perfect stillness, not a single part of their bodies, including their lungs, moving. But when we're together like this, he often seems to have difficulty catching his breath. I don't think he even knows he gasps for air when he's making love to me. It's like I literally take his breath away. Is it wrong that this makes me feel kind of proud?

Of course it is. All of this is wrong. Yet I'm finding it more and more difficult to care.

His hands move to the sides of my waist and he holds me in place, lifting his hips to drive into me harder. That little ball of pressure in my lower belly grows tighter. My heart races. I try to push against the strength of his fingers keeping me still, but it's no use. I cannot move unless he lets me. The word "please" forms on my lips, but I clap my hand over my mouth, preventing it from flying free, stifling my moans as my climax rolls over me in increasingly powerful waves. My body feels boneless, and I want to collapse, but he holds onto me. He sits up and pulls me against his chest as I shudder, aftershock after aftershock convulsing me, my rapid exhalations hot against his skin.

He has me; I'm safe. I cling to him, knowing he won't let me go, won't let me fall.

Together we roll onto our sides, facing each other, my right leg hooked over his thigh as he again starts to move inside me. My breathing is still ragged, and as he pumps faster, harder, I hear his gasps becoming erratic and know he is close. I gather my strength and move my hips against him, doing my best to match his frantic pace, knowing I can't do it but trying anyway. Because he's nearly there, and it's because of me, and I want it to be the best it can be for him. He deserves all of what little I'm able to give.

He grips my ass and pulls me tight against him as he groans, all rough and raspy and low, and shudders all over. Sweat breaks out across his skin. We're both overheated, but neither of us lets go. Neither of us pulls apart to allow any cool air to come between us. We cling to one another like we're each other's only life preserver in a tumultuous sea, waves crashing, monsoon raging, trying to drag us apart. To drown us. The entire world is against us, but we refuse to be swept away. We just hold on.

That's what we do, he and I. We just hold on. Even if all we have are brief moments like these to hold on to. It's all we've got, but we won't let go.

And he stays with me, holding me for nearly an hour. I tuck my face into his neck and run my fingers lightly over his velvety skin. He has the softest skin. I bet he uses only the most expensive lotions and bath oils to keep it so soft. One time when he was away I snuck into his bathroom just to have a bath in that amazing tub, and the lotion I used after made my skin feel like a newborn baby's. He has impeccable taste. In everything but women, anyway.

I know I'm bad for him. You could argue that he's worse for me, but I disagree. Falling in love with me was the worst luck that could have happened to him, really. Not only because I'm his brother's girl, not only because I must remind him constantly of the wicked she-devil who led him on for 145 years and broke his heart, but because of the power his loving me leaves me over him. I don't want this power, but he's given it to me anyway. He's fragile, this man in my arms, although he'd kill anyone who ever dared voice that opinion out loud. His past has left him emotionally brittle, and I know full well that if I were to turn him away it might create disastrous consequences. Not that I intend to.

I feel his lips on my forehead and know what it means. He's about to go. I sigh, so soft he shouldn't even be able to hear it, but of course he does. I feel him hesitate for a second, and I'm aware of the argument raging in his head. He's thinking about staying, because it's all he wants, but he's thinking about going because he knows he shouldn't be here. He's afraid if he lingers too long I'll ask him to leave.

He couldn't be more wrong.

Another soft brush of his lips just above my right eyebrow and then he pulls away. I shiver, a sudden wave of cold coming over me the instant his skin leaves mine. I reach for him, but he's already standing, pulling on his jeans in the dark. I hear the thump of his boots as he roughly shoves his feet into them. He's rushing to get away now, hurrying to get out of here before I realize how much he hates to go, how much it hurts him every single time he has to kiss me goodbye, never knowing if he'll ever have the chance to touch me again. I know this as well as I know my own heart, because it's exactly how I feel, too.

Like this might be the last time.

The window sill rises with a creak. One little creak in the night. One groan of wood sliding against wood. That's all it takes. Something in me fractures, flies apart.

I bolt from the bed. He turns, his face white in the half-light leaking in from the street, those expressive eyes wide.

"Damon," I plead.

His eyebrows fly up, questioning this sudden change in dynamic. He's not used to hearing my voice when we're together. It startles him. I don't think he trusts it. One hand remains on the window ledge, one knee on the seat. But his face stays trained on mine.

With one more word, my fate is sealed. _Our_ fate is sealed. We'll have to face the unpleasant consequences, but we'll face them together. Because I mean it more than I've ever meant anything in my entire too-short life.

"Stay."

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**A/N** _So I had an idea and since my muse has been fickle lately I wanted to play with it, hence this one-shot. Thanks to Mara for prereading. I know it's a bit angsty, but she's a 17 year-old girl, so I think that kind of makes sense here. Hope you guys like? Much love to you all for your patience with DMLL. Don't worry, I'm still working on it. Pretty please review?_

_If you like, you can follow me on ask, tumblr and twitter: Elvishgrrl_


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